


Love and the Alien

by nostalgia



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Clothes, F/M, Masturbation, Versailles - Freeform, let's get you out of those wet clothes, no actual porn sorry, the wardrobe room, whouffaldi, whouffle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-10 16:00:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3296291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nostalgia/pseuds/nostalgia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Almost everyone is into that sort of thing, in my experience.” Clara has some questions about the Doctor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love and the Alien

“You can't go out like that,” says the Doctor, when Clara walks into the console room. 

She stops and glances down at herself. “Why not?” She hadn't expected compliments from the Doctor, but she can't think why he's objecting to a perfectly nice dress.

“Skirt's too short and the sleeves are too long,” he says, waving his hands and walking towards her.

“Yeah, well you look like a magician,” she counters.

“Which is very fashionable where we're going.”

“That's convenient.”

“I thought so too,” he says, nodding. He gestures back down the corridor. “Off you go, put on something more appropriate.”

“How am I supposed to know what's appropriate?” she asks with a sigh. “I've never _been_ to the Martian opera before. I didn't even know it existed until this morning.”

“I'll pick something out for you,” he says, generously. “You're, what, a size sixteen?” he asks, heading for the wardrobe room.

“No, I am not!” Clara follows him, scowling. 

He glances back at her. “Touchy subject, eh?” 

Clara glares at him.

 

Later, she stands in front of a full-length mirror listening to the Doctor going on about telepathic migratory sharks as he works at lacing her into a somewhat ridiculous dress. The skirt is full-length and the bodice is sleeveless and laces up at the back. The colour suits her and the cut is quite flattering. It's also exactly her size, which – she hopes – means the Doctor has given some thought to the matter of Clara's body. 

Or maybe not, since he's still telling her about sharks and doesn't seem interested in what the bodice does to her cleavage or to bare skin on display where it ends. Clara's mind wanders, stepping carefully around the question of whether he'd have noticed before he regenerated. 

“I said, is it too tight?” 

She blinks to clear her head and meets his gaze in the mirror. “No,” she says, “it's fine.”

He inspects her reflection. “It probably looks good on you,” he says, which is about as much as she can ask for from him in the way of compliments.

 

And later still she sits beside him watching a bunch of armoured aliens sing and dance about God knows what. The noise from the orchestra barely counts as music and the dancers aren't especially graceful. The warbling-gargling sound is presumably the local version of singing. Clara is not particularly impressed. 

The Doctor, however, is giving the performance his full attention. He watches the stage intently, occasionally smiles slightly at some amusing aspect of the plot or dialogue or whatever it is that he finds so interesting. 

Clara is bored senseless after about half an hour. She suppresses a yawn and leans to the side to rest her head against the Doctor's shoulder. She feels him tense, but he doesn't attempt to dislodge her. It's better than nothing. 

 

“What was it about?” she asks when they're back in the wardrobe room and the Doctor is undoing the lacing. “The opera, I mean. What was the story?”

“It was about a tragic love affair. A young man falls for an unsuitable woman who eventually leaves him for someone richer and with greater social mobility.”

“Oh,” she says. “Romantic Martians.”

“What's so surprising about that?” he asks, a little sharpness to his voice. 

“Nothing, it's just... I didn't realise they were into that sort of thing.” She feels the bodice slip as it loosens, and tugs the front up to a decent height. 

“Almost everyone is into that sort of thing, in my experience.”

“Are you?”

He looks up from his work and looks at her in the mirror for a moment before stepping back from her. “You can probably get out of that dress yourself now.” 

“I was only asking a question,” she says.

“And I'm choosing not to answer it.” He turns to leave the room, then stops in the doorway for a moment. “You don't have to know everything, Clara Oswald.”

 

He can't stop her _thinking_ , and so think she does. Often, frequently, a lot. She spends most of her nights thinking about one or the other (occasionally both of them), a hand between her legs and his name silent on her lips. 

She wonders sometimes if he does the same, isn't even sure if Time Lords wank. She knows there have been marriages, and children, so presumably... but did it work that way with aliens? Maybe they grew their offspring in vats and never so much as kissed. 

If he is sexless then she is certainly not. She enjoys her fantasy versions of him, feels no guilt and only a little awkwardness when she faces him during the day. She wants to know things he will probably never tell her, and her avenues of research are limited. 

Any little signs of attraction or arousal are noted, analysed, worried over. He can't be, he must be, she would like to _know_. 

 

Some of Clara's questions are answered when she finds the room with the blue door.

It's not like she went _looking_ for it, she didn't even know it was there. In fact she's pretty sure that it's not a permanent feature, because she's been in this corridor before and the only door was to cupboard filled with men's shoes. But it's there now, and she opens it without really thinking. 

She recognises the old Doctor, of course, and it takes her only a moment to put a name to River Song. Clara freezes in the doorway, but neither of the room's occupants spare a glance in her direction. They are absorbed in each other, whispering inaudibly, touching, making love. There is a tenderness between them that isn't meant for an audience, but Clara can't tear her gaze away from the sight.

“It's an echo.”

Clara starts when she realises that the Doctor is standing behind her. 

“It's how the TARDIS remembers,” he continues, “though she doesn't usually put on shows for the curious.” He moves Clara's hand from the door and closes the room. “Let's give them their privacy, shall we?”

Clara begins to apologise. “I shouldn't have -”

“No, you shouldn't. But you did.” He turns from her and walks swiftly down the corridor.

She follows. “It's just... I didn't think you... I mean...” She tries to collect her thoughts. “I'm sorry.”

The Doctor keeps moving. “She's dead, he's dead, it was centuries ago.”

“Yeah, but -”

He stops suddenly and she only just avoids walking into his back. “What would you like me to say? That I'm angry? That I'm embarrassed? That you're too nosy for your own good?” He doesn't wait for a response. “I'd prefer you hadn't seen that, but you did, and now I'd like to move on.”

“Did you love her?” she asks, because she has wondered for such a very long time.

He seems surprised and appalled in equal measure. “What sort of a question is that? I married her, didn't I?”

Clara aims for reasonable. “People get married for all sorts of reasons.”

He turns away from her once more. “I don't.”

And that's that. 

 

“Do you sleep?” 

“I do all sorts of things,” he answers. 

She knows that much now, at least. “You're always awake. As far as I can tell you haven't slept since just after you regenerated.”

“I don't like sleeping,” he says, eyes on the scanner. 

“Why not?” she asks, already certain that he'll say it's boring. 

“Bad dreams. Good dreams. Really strange dreams where everyone is made of carrots.”

She's surprised, and too intrigued to take the sensible course and change the subject. “Dreams can't hurt you,” she points out. 

“Not physically, no.” Finally he looks at her. “Do you never dream about Danny Pink?”

Of course she does. “It's not about me.”

“Really? First time for everything, I suppose.”

“Picking on me isn't going to stop me asking questions.” She says, folding her arms across her chest, defensive. 

“No,” he says, “I suppose it won't.” He steps back from the console, beckons her over with a wave. “I'll show you where I sleep.”

She follows at a decent pace, trying not to rush. He leads her through corridors, down staircases, past endless identical doors. He stops at one with no remarkable features. 

“It's not very interesting,” he says, with his hand on the doorknob.

She shrugs as casually as she can manage. “I might as well look now that we're here.” She steps past him into the room as the door swings open. 

There is a bed, an empty bookcase, an old armchair, a wooden wardrobe and a somewhat threadbare rug. “It's a bit spartan,” she says, trying to hide her shock.

“This isn't the room I shared with River, if that's what you're thinking. I haven't been in that room in centuries, I think the TARDIS hides it from me.”

“I thought you'd have... stuff. Books and... I don't know, photos. Things from alien planets. Mementos. Things to remind you of your travels.”

“I don't always want to be reminded,” he says. He swallows and then shrugs. “It's a room. I told you it wouldn't be interesting.”

 

They don't discuss the topic again, and for a few days he seems wary of her. Maybe he regrets telling her too much, maybe he thinks she's going to demand more from him. Eventually Clara decides to change the subject completely by getting back to adventuring through history.

“Can we go to Versailles?” she asks, holding up a novel she found in the library. “I was reading about it, it sounds beautiful.”

The Doctor takes the book from her, raises an eyebrow at the cover illustration, and then flicks through the pages quickly before depositing it on the console. “It'll never last,” he tells her, “and she'll soon get tired of him ripping her bodice all the time.”

“Not the point,” says Clara. “I want to see what it was really like. The gardens, the Hall of Mirrors, all of it. Maybe we could meet Louis XV. Maybe I could become his mistress.” She's provoking him now and she knows it. She waits to be told that she isn't pretty enough, or that her hair is too small. 

“1770 alright for you?” he asks, moving to set the coordinates. 

“Not worried the king will steal my heart?” she asks, almost disappointed by his lack of retort.

He looks at her for a long moment, seemingly turning the idea over in his head. “I could steal you back like that,” he snaps his fingers. 

Clara moves closer, a thrill twisting her stomach. “Doubt it.”

“Wouldn't be the first time,” he says, and there's a slight smile that Clara can't quite read. “Right, eighteenth century. You'll need panniers.”

“What?”

He moves his hands to his sides and gestures. “Big dresses in those days.” He waves her towards the wardrobe room. “Find something you like. I'll be along in a minute to help with the scaffolding.”

 

Clara toys with her fan as the Doctor regales a small crowd with an anecdote about Voltaire and a goose. It's not quite as exciting as she'd expected, her growing need for adrenaline isn't being met by the stiff dancing and the classical music. She finds herself wishing for an alien invasion and then wonders if this is what the Doctor feels like sometimes. 

But no, he seems happy. He's been introducing himself as the Dutch ambassador, which is surprisingly successful given his accent. Clara watches him talk animatedly for a while, then pushes through his audience to tug at his sleeve. 

“Can we go now?” she asks. “It sort of smells.”

“Well, of course it does, it's the past.” Clara detects a faint whiff of alcohol on his breath. He isn't drunk, but it might explain his good mood. 

“And this dress is itchy,” she complains. She widens her eyes a little, pleading. 

The Doctor looks around the room. “I suppose we've seen all the good bits.” He starts making their excuses and Clara tries to adjust her bodice as discreetly as possible. 

On the way back to the TARDIS the heavens open and they end up running through the palace gardens to shelter of the ship. 

“Where to next?” she asks, rainwater dripping from her hair. “Somewhere it doesn't rain?”

“That narrows it down,” he says. He takes of his soaking coat. “First we have to get out of these clothes before we catch something. You especially.”

“You'll have to help,” she says, and she puts some flirtation in her voice just to unsettle him. 

He sighs a bit too dramatically. “New rule -- if you can't get it on and off yourself, you're not wearing it.”

She shivers and laughs.

 

She opens the door to the wardrobe room when she's down to what probably passes for underwear. The Doctor, himself already dry and changed, hands her a fluffy pink towel for her hair. Clara wraps it round her head and then stands in the middle of the room feeling only a little bit stupid.

“What did they do when they wanted to get their clothes off in a hurry?” she asks. 

“What for?” he asks, untying the panniers.

“Do you seriously not know?” she asks, certain that he pretends his innocence at least most of the time.

“If you mean sex,” and here he begins to work on her corset, “they were quite ingenious. But you,” he says, and she feels his breath against her ear, “are far too inquisitive.”

“I thought you liked that about me?” 

“You also have something of a one-track mind. But don't worry, that's normal for your species.”

“Excuse me?” she retorts in an offended note that she doesn't really mean. 

“You're probably even thinking about it now,” he says. 

“I am,” she says, boldly. “You probably are as well.”

“I'm not.”

“You're undressing a pretty girl, Doctor, I'm sure your mind has wandered.” She cuts off his first line of defence by adding, “I know I'm pretty, and I know that you know it too.”

“My mind never wanders, I'm in full control of my thoughts.”

“Bollocks,” she says, eloquently. She pulls the towel from her head and lets her still-wet hair fall around her shoulders. “I don't know why you can't just admit that you're a bit aroused by all this.”

“I'm not, but if I was then I'm sure I'd have at least a dozen excellent reasons for keeping that information from you.”

“Name one.”

“Mortgages,” he says, tugging the last bit of lacing from her back and helping her drop the corset to the floor. 

“What does that even mean?” she asks. It occurs to her that the chemise she's wearing is too wet to completely maintain her modesty, and she stands a little taller because the idea pleases her.

“I know what humans are like. You want mortgages, and children, and Volvos. I can't give you those things, so I would maintain a healthy distance from you. Hypothetically, of course.”

“Doctor, I hate Volvos.”

“But you like children,” he counters. 

Clara turns to face him, is pleased to note that his eyes glance down for an instant before heading back up to meet her gaze. “I don't want your alien babies, calm down.”

“I'm perfectly calm.”

She moves forwards a little to almost close the gap between them. “Luckily there are ways to have sex without making babies.” She lifts herself on her tiptoes, brushes her lips against his. 

His hands move to her waist, but he doesn't push her away. Clara takes this as encouragement and presses her body against his. 

“You're getting my shirt wet,” he says lightly. 

“Then you'd best take it off,” she replies. This was always going to happen, and surely he knows that just as well as she does. 

“It won't be forever,” he says in a warning tone, but he's undoing the top button of his shirt as he says it. 

Clara answers by kissing him. 

 

They don't go to the empty room he claims as his own, or to any other room Clara's ever seen. She suspects that the TARDIS has made a room specially, a little love-nest to be moved and deleted later on. If she's right it means the ship is watching, but she decides that she doesn't care. She's waited too long to let a pervy spaceship put her off. 

Afterwards she is aware that something has changed, that the future will not be like the past. She's also aware that this doesn't have to be a bad thing. This is a good change, she is sure of it, and she regrets nothing.

It doesn't last forever, but nobody ever said it had to.


End file.
